


Mad Dog

by The_Writing_Mobster



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Joker (DCU) Backstory, Joker is a veteran, Oneshot, Reddit theories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-17 14:47:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Writing_Mobster/pseuds/The_Writing_Mobster
Summary: "Wanna know how I got these scars?"There are many stories. The mafia gave them to him after he fucked up a job. His wife got carved up so he gave them to himself to cheer her up. His father did it to him in a drunken, rage induced stupor...he refused to talk in an interrogation.Despite the stories, one thing was for certain: names don't matter, order is pathetic, the men in suits pull the strings like puppet masters, and it was his job to tear them down.This is a one shot based on the theory that the Joker (The Dark Knight) was an ex military operative. I liked the theory so much I wrote about it.





	Mad Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This lil one shot is based off of the ex-military theory of Heath Ledger's Joker. I liked it a lot and wanted to see what I could do with it. I also really want to write a Nolanverse Harley Quinn and Joker fic, but we'll just see what happens. Hopefully you like it!

_Wanna know how I got these scars?_

* * *

A sack was ripped off of a young man's head. A dark room, three guards with darker skin and red hats. Guns were strapped to their backs as they stood. Watching him. 

The young man didn't look like he should've been in a bombed out building, surrounded by soldiers. He had not a blemish on his face, except for smile lines around his eyes. His onyx black eyes that glittered with an inner malice. He didn't look like he belonged there...but he did. 

"You are going to answer us clearly and truthfully, do you understand?" A calm, cruel voice asked. The man's black eyes shifted around the room, spotting a video camera in the corner. 

"I...understand," he murmured. His fingers twitched in the handcuffs, and truly, his body was so beaten and bruised...he didn't know if he could escape with his life. If he even wanted to...if life was even worth it at that point. They had already taken so much. 

"Good...good, then this can go easily. Tell us your name. Your full name," the interrogator spoke with a thick Iranian accent, but the man could understand him crystal clear. 

"My...my name doesn't matter," 

* * *

"So how'd you end up here huh?" Asked an older man, he was clearly a father. Clearly had something to live for. They called him Father John. The man with onyx black eyes glanced up and smiled kindly. 

"Same as everyone. Shit hit the fan and this was the way out. Besides...I'd like to think I'm good at it," he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. The older man, Father John, grinned and shuffled a deck of cards. Two other men joined them. A young man, younger than the pretty boy with black eyes. 

"I joined because my brother died on the plane crash...I can't wait to get my hands on those filthy terrorists and make them squeal!" Growled a soldier, his fists clenching, he was known as D-Day...he wasn't the brightest, and the pretty man had come with the play on words himself. The Man's black eyes darted to him, studying him for all he was. All his body, voice and mind could give away. He gave a short laugh and nodded his sympathies when he grew bored. 

"Yeah...you're right, shit hits the fan...my uh, my wife got in some deep shit with the mob. Mutilated her and they came after me," murmured Father John. 

"That's an interesting story...I'll remember that one," said the man with black eyes and a pretty face. He didn't belong with that squadron, all battle hardened and ready to die for the big man. For order. For peace. What's peace without war? What's order without chaos? 

"I uh, I joined to get away from home. Shit got real bad. Uh, my dad had problems and I had no money for college. Now I'm here I guess," murmured the youngest kid in the group, the soldiers called him Ace. Cards were dealt. 

"Well of course...I sense in you a kindred spirit," murmured the man, his eyes glittering like crude oil in the florescent light of the camp. The game began. 

"Hey, pretty boy, what's your name? Who were you before this?" Asked Father John. The pretty boy smiled and shook his head. 

"You wanna know my name? Names don't matter. Not here... we're just, tools. So let's be good tools. Unless you're a freak who names a hammer," said the man, his eyes shining with wet luster. The other men chuckled in response. Several, "I can't argue with that"s and, "You got a point there,"s. Cards were played. Cards were stacked. Cards were folded. 

The man's dark eyes glittered with wicked triumph as he watched the stack grow. Then...he played his favorite. His wild card. 

"Damnit! Of course you'd play the joker. Ugh, fuck you," groaned D-Day. The man's eyes glistened as he laughed, taking the watch that Father John had gambled. It was a nice watch.

"That's just the way the cards fold. Can't blame me for playing the game," he remarked. The soldiers grinned at him. Pretty boy didn't look like he belonged, but his dark eyes gave away every malicious, excited twinkle, every flicker of hope, and every cynical thought. He belonged there. He had been forced to. He had lived this for only a few years, and yet it had already gotten into his brain and pulled the strings in his mind in ugly tunes. He had to admit sometimes the war made him feel like he was going crazy. 

* * *

"Tell us your name. Do not make this hard," snapped the terrorist soldier. The pretty boy narrowed his black eyes and he scowled. 

"What if I don't remember?" He asked, a smirk tilting his lips as he played with his interrogators and withheld information. Information that would get him in trouble. 

"Well then let's jog your memory, shall we?" Snapped the soldier. The pretty boy snarled as they advanced on him, grabbing him by his short, curled hair and yanking his head back with a vicious tug. A rag was forced into his face and a hose sprayed him. He sputtered as they water boarded him. His nose and mouth fought for air as air was sucked out of him. He choked, and they kept going. Relentless, they drowned him until he was a sputtering, coughing wretch. 

Finally, they stopped and yanked the rag off. The pretty boy wrenched away, racking coughs shaking his body as he begged for air, his face red from the suffocation. 

"Who are you!?" Snarled the soldier. Pretty Boy choked and spat. 

"A soldier. A god damned, soldier, and if it weren't for the fuckin squealers I'd have your neck split wide open you cunt!" He snarled. His head was slammed into the table. Three times. Pretty Boy spit and rolled his shoulders. They wouldn't get him to talk. He looked soft, he looked unexpected...but by assuming, that's where they had made their first mistake. He was a soldier. 

"Fine. What is your nationality?" snarled the soldier before him. Pretty boy held his gaze. 

"Where do you think?" He spat. A dark, dry chuckle escaped his lips as he began to truly think of the absurdity of his situation. Of how he got here. How...futile this all was. The interrogator narrowed his eyes at him. 

* * *

"Hey J, where you from?" It wasn't the place to talk, marching through the desert sands as the moon shined down on them. The pretty boy glanced at his younger teammate, the one with an abusive father, and smiled. 

"Back home? Uh...Gotham," he murmured, as if it were a curse. Ace's eyes brightened. 

"Oh? Me too! What are the chances," he whispered excitedly. Ruins of bombed out building surrounded them as they entered the conflict zone. It was a simple recon mission, they just had to figure out where they were getting their weapons. Once they found it...they'd plant bombs and destroy the place. 

Pretty Boy's black eyes wandered down the streets of the village. He caught a man dragging a woman behind her and tossing her into a car before screeching off. He frowned and followed the car with his eyes. He almost left his squadron to chase the car down and toss a grenade, or blow the man up from the insides. He'd seen the worst of humanity in these slums. How different were the fat cats in Gotham from these lowlifes? Pretty Boy had grown up with a lot of lowlifes in Gotham. They were all the same... At the end of the day...he wouldn't have complained if a bomb wiped them all out. 

Pretty boy's black eyes glinted at the thought of seeing an explosion. He had always loved the fireworks. He had wanted to be the one to plant them and make them go off, along with another man. He glanced back at the kid and smiled. 

"What, a shit hole like Gotham? ...not slim at all kid. Not slim at all," he murmured. Father John shushed them. The two young men chuckled and held up their hands apologetically. 

_ **BBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAATATATATA!!!!** _

The soldiers ducked for cover as bullets shrouded over them. Sandstone cracked and gave way with puffs of dust. The pretty boy cocked his gun. He was surprisingly calm. He had always been made for this. Pretty Boy ducked out and shot with rapid fire. The ring of the machine gun rattled him, but he fell back under cover as another round from their enemies fired off. 

"Fuuuuc_**k**_." He growled low under his breath as he reloaded his magazine. He looked for an opening and _bingo, _the pretty boy dove for the clearing and ran, puffs of smoke following him as bullets plowed into the ground and ruined sandstone walls. He twisted behind a wall at the sight of an enemy soldier. 

He waited as the soldier emptied his magazine, bullets ringing and ricocheting across the sandstone walls. When he heard the click of emptiness, the pretty boy sprung up and vaulted over the sandstone wall. Before his enemy could react, he blasted a bullet straight into his brain, blood spattering across the stone. Pretty Boy glanced over the soldier that had stood in his way and he frowned. He had to have been around his age...

A swelling rage filled his heart, this was war. They were boys, no older than twenty one, not even allowed to legally drink but here they were...dying and for what? So some oil companies could get their money? A wry laughter began to shake his body and he fell back against the wall. He slid down to sit beside his enemy. 

"Well isn't this a funny world we live in?" He murmured. He glanced over at the young soldier and studied the pain on his face. There was something chillingly beautiful about the twisted grimace, the glisten of blood on his forehead. 

Pretty Boy shook his head and dispelled the observation. This conflict was driving him insane. At that notion, another dry laugh bubbled out from him. How terrible. How terribly...funny...

* * *

"Why the fuck are you laughing?" Snarled his interrogator. Pretty Boy looked up, his dark eyes glinting with malice. 

"Isn't it..._funny _that we're just some pawns in a game of chess? Doesn't that just make you want to _laugh?" _he snarled, and at his own words, he did just that. He laughed. A fist crashed against his face, sending him down, but he kept laughing. It was just so..._funny_. This was all so **_funny_**. 

"Tell me what your orders were!" Snarled the interrogator. Pretty Boy narrowed his eyes and grinned. 

"I think you and I both know what my _orders _were," he snarled, the laughter gone. The interrogator's eyes narrowed. 

* * *

Pretty Boy found his team again, the soldiers that had ambushed them scattered across the grounds. He couldn't find Father John. A sinking feeling overcame him as he realized what must've happened. He looked down at his watch, the watch he had gambled for and clenched his jaw. Slowly, he took it off and scoured the battlefield. He found Father John sprawled limp, hands outstretched. 

Pretty boy's black eyes welled with tears and he sat down, placing the watch in Father John's hand. He didn't know what to say, so he opted for silence. No point. He'd remember Father John, and his story. He stood up and found himself strangely calm. He brushed the tears off his face and no more fell. He was made for this work. 

"Come on J, there'll be more," snapped D-Day. Pretty Boy nodded and stood up. The three of them, and a few others loped away from the site. Pretty Boy found a part of himself falling behind, staying there with the body of Father John. 

The warehouse they had investigated was just a few blocks down. Soon they'd complete the mission and be home free. There was a clearing the buildings made way for and a fence stood tall. A handful of guards sat outside, not exactly sitting watch. It was a crude set up, in this third world village where no questions were asked. 

They stalked forward and split up to surround the warehouse. Pretty Boy, standing with Ace, pulled the key from a hand grenade and chucked it over the fence toward the guards at the front. Before the could get the chance to react, the grenade exploded, launching them and pieces of them into the sky. Pretty Boy laughed quietly at the fireworks. He had always loved them, and Ace even gave a few low chuckles. 

They stalked forward as more gun shots were heard. Ace pulled open the doors to the warehouse and the two filed in, guns bared. They stopped dead at the sight before them. Crude conveyer belts and a boxes of weapons sounded them...but in the center...was a group of huddled soldiers. American soldiers. 

* * *

Two hours had passed. More questions that the pretty boy wouldn't answer were asked, and he had fingernails removed. It had been agonizing, leaving his fingers bloodied and screaming with pain. He had been water boarded two more times, but he refused to spill. At this point it wasn't to protect his mission, or save what was left of his crew, it was to prove a point. It was spite. He was made for this. 

"I'm going to ask again, were your orders to demolish the warehouse with U.S hostages?" Asked the interrogator. The pretty boy's black eyes, glazed over with pain, slowly looked up and he smiled weakly. 

"Why, did I ruin your little _plan? _Ya know...I'm starting to really hate plans. Orders...what did you want from those soldiers? Did you just want them to rat us out so you'd be ready, or did you want to get money out of it? Both? You people are pathetic. Every one of you, and not just you, them to. All of us. Pathetic. Sheep—" 

"Enough!" He was pummeled once more, his lip busting under the beat. He groaned, but at this point, his body was so in pain, that nothing was working. He was numb. His hand was grabbed and a hand thumb was pressed into his open nail bed. All was numb except that! 

"FUCK!" he spat, his body lurching. The interrogator grinned and pressed down. 

"No, no, it wasn't part of the plan we..." He stopped when he realized he had been about to break. Tears welled in his eyes. He wished he had been mowed down like Father John. He wished he could join Ace. This was awful. Awfully cruel. Awfully _funny. _

He glanced at the interrogator and let out a bark of vicious laughter that startled the man. He let the laughter twist into a higher shriek, if only to throw him off guard long enough to give his fingers some relief. The interrogator snarled and grabbed the pretty boy by his chin. 

"You want something to laugh about fucker!?" He snarled. 

"Ohhh _please,"_ he snarled, before giving another shrill peel of laughter and spitting in his interrogator's face. What more could they do? He wasn't a squealer. He wasn't like those men. The interrogator laughed along and nodded. 

_"Yeah?_ You want something to laugh about you fucking _joker_?!" Taunted his interrogator. The pretty boy nodded slowly and grinned, his chuckles infesting the other men that stood around. One of them handed the interrogator a switch blade and he opened it. The pretty boy looked at the blade and faltered, his eyes narrowing. 

"Hey, I like a good knife play too, but don't you think it's a little soon?" He asked as the interrogator brought the blade to his lips. A firm frown grew on his face as he realized what he was doing. 

"Oh? Got more jokes? Or is this not funny anymore? Why so serious now, joker?" Growled the interrogator, a wicked chortle rumbling his chest. 

* * *

Ace raced forward and began to untie one of the soldiers. They looked up at him with remorse and fear. Something was wrong. 

"Ace, we need to get out of here," he snapped. Ace looked up, a confused frown growing on his face. 

"What? J go plant the bombs. I'll get our boys out of here, don't worry guys, you're safe now," he said. The pretty boy frowned, but did as told. He, and a few other shocked soldiers on his team began to unload the bombs and strap them to walls and conveyor belts. 

"No! You need to leave! They...they know you're here!" Shouted one soldier as Ace undid his bindings. Pretty Boy shot up, his eyes narrowing as an icy coldness gripped his heart. 

"They what? What did you fucking tell them?' snarled the pretty boy as he stomped toward his fellow soldier. They faltered and looked away, a shamed frown growing on their face. Pretty Boy glowered at them. 

"They got us to talk," he said slowly. Pretty Boy snarled and held his knife up to the soldier. 

"You fucking—" he breathed. Before he could finish, the doors were burst open and several enemy soldiers spilled in, bullets filling the warehouse with loud **_BRRRRAAATATATATA_**S

Pretty Boy dove under cover and grabbed his detonator from his pack. He looked up and made a break for it. A gunshot went off and he stumbled as a sharp, hot pang grazed his arm. He went back behind cover and cocked his gun. He shot out and let his AK rip off, bullet casings clattering on the ground before he twisted back under cover. He let out a strained breath. Rage blinded him. They had ratted them out. It should've been obvious. It had all been too easy. 

Pretty Boy snarled and launched out the door. He took a soldier by the next, knocking his gun out of his hand and shooting him. The enemy fell limp in his arms and he threw him away. 

"ACE!" he roared. The gunshots were deafening. He stumbled out from the fence and looked back. A horror filled him as he realized what he was about to do. He had _orders._ A sick dread crept up his stomach and he twisted the key. 

"AAACE!!" he roared again. His younger companion darted out, limping. He had been hit. The pretty boy sighed with relief and raced to pull him out of the conflict.

"Let's shoot off some fireworks," he snarled. Ace's eyes widened with horror. 

"We can't do that! Our men are still in there!" He shouted. Pretty Boy dragged him last the fence and across the street. 

"We have orders, we're tools, let's finish the job. Besides...no one will care. Our deaths won't be broadcasted...Ace, Ace!" Ace took off, back towards the warehouse. Pretty Boy reached out to snag him, but a soldier behind him fired, and Ace fell dead. Pretty Boy jumped up and hid, reloading his AK. 

He blinked when he looked back up to see Ace on the ground; limp. He grit his teeth and jumped out, eyeing the man, before his finger mashed the red button underneath it. 

The warehouse went up in flames and the pretty boy let out a hysterical, sorrowfull laughter at the unfairness of it all. The enemy heaved him up and dragged him away. He was promptly taken hostage. 

* * *

The knife sawed through the corners of his lips and his agonized screams filled the room. The soldiers around then twitched uncomfortably and looked around. They looked at anything to divert their gaze. 

The next corner of his lip was even worse, the knife bludgeoning through his skin and twisting. Blood filled the pretty boy's mouth and streamed down his lips. He choked and gurgled and screamed. The burning pain scourged his body as his lips were pulled across his face into a permanent smile.

"Yeah, you happy now joker man? Laugh it up! Ha. Ha. Ha!" Snarled the interrogator. The pretty boy...or, the _once _pretty boy heaved heavy breaths as screams racked his lungs and scraped his throat. He gurgled and choked on the blood, spitting it out even though all movement in his face sent more agonizing pangs through him. He could say nothing to retaliate. 

The interrogator grabbed him by the hair and looked him up and down. The Once Pretty Boy sniffed and tried to glare at them man through his pain. How pathetic this all was. The interrogator snarled and stomped away. All of the soldiers but one, with his gun trained on him, left. 

He let his head hang as sobs began to rack his body. He had stayed strong. For what? For order and law? To keep the terrorists at bay? He bared his bloodied teeth and shifted his hands in his shackles. That's when he found his hands slick enough from blood...that they were slipping out from the cuffs. He looked up at the soldier and frowned at the best his new scars would let him, blood still streaming down his face and neck and staining his uniform. 

"Would you be so kind to get me a glass of water?" He asked. The soldier glared at him and didn't budge. He leaned forward against the table. 

"I'll assume you don't speak English. That's fine. Who needs a fuckin language anyway? Who needs a fucking country, who needs all this _shit_? What's it done for you and me? Hm? Pain? Isn't that right?" He mused, despite how much pain it took to talk. The soldier shushed him harshly, rolling his eyes and turning to the door. 

"Can you at _least _wipe my fuckin face off? I'd do it myself, but," he murmured, his lips screaming with pain. He needed to get the soldier close to him. Incapacitate. He slipped his hands out from their cuffs as subtly possible, trying as hard as possible not to agitate his fingers. Every inch of him was screaming. If he pulled this off...he doubted he'd even be able to get very far. 

The soldier groaned and stomped over to him if only to give him a hard slap on the face. Before he could land the blow, the once pretty boy shot forward and clasped the soldier's wrist and gun. 

The soldier shouted his dismay as his hostage knocked the gun clumsily from his hand and tackled him. He wrapped his hands around his throat, the soldier thrashing below him as his fingers, slick in blood, throbbed with agony. He fought through the pain. Pain was just temporary. He needed to escape. He needed to make them pay for what they'd done to him. What they did to Ace, to Father John. What their orders had done to his fellow soldiers, what their rules had done, had done so _little _to protect them. Make them pay for every rape they wouldn't stop, every murder that went overlooked. Every rich man that sat in his tower while brunts like him were forced to fight their battles for them. They were animals. Every. single. one of them. He had seen the world's true colors. He'd bring this back to the people who lived in cushy towers. He'd show them all. 

He slumped over the dead man, a cruel grin on his face. He took the knife from his belt and stashed them into his uniform with slippery and throbbing hands. He looked down at the dead man below him and chuckled low under his breath. 

"Why so serious?" He asked, before taking his bloodied fingers and drawing a red smile on the man's face. The world was just a bad joke, and he knew...he knew it was his job to tell it. To _show_ it. 

* * *

Three months later 

Johnathan Crane sat in his car, driver stalled in front of a red light. Just six more months before Ra's al ghul came to Gotham city. He was so... uncharacteristically excited. He couldn't help but find the prospect of using the Narrows as his experimental grounds extremely riveting. He had no idea what the aforementioned league of shadows member was planning for this city, and frankly he didn't care. The chance to see the toxin in action was enough to make him giggle with glee. 

Sure, he was the head doctor at Arkham Asylum, but you could only run a few tests on some lowest of the low thugs before it got boring. He wanted to test on a more wider scale. In the name of science! 

His door opened much to his surprise and a man slid next to him. Crane and his driver began to protest, and Johnathan even began to ready his fear toxin, before a gun cocked at his head. He looked up to see a hideous face. Scars pulling at the man's lips into an ever present grin. 

"Sh sh sh sh, Ya don't want to do that _Johnathan,_" he drawled, his voice nasally and scratchy. Crane's eyes widened and he lowered his hands. 

"Who are you?" He asked shakily. The man narrowed his shining black eyes and smirked. 

"A wild card," he growled, pulling a _joker's_ card from his cheap suit jacket. 

"What do you want?" Asked Crane. The Joker leaned forward and grinned a nasty, spiteful grin. 

"I've been doing some digging on you...and I know about your little affair with that ridiculous League of Shadows...now, I don't give a shit about them...but they have some technology that'd be very, _very _useful to me and what I have planned," he whispered. Crane's eyes shifted and he smirked. This man was smart. 

"And what is that?" He asked. The Joker chuckled darkly, a chill running down Crane's spine. 

"Uhhhh...well that would be your little Clean Slate gadget," he said with a smirk. Crane narrowed his eyes. 

"And what if I say no?" He asked. The Joker leaned in so far that Crane could smell his foul breath. 

"Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny...you don't want to know what I'll do to you if you say no," he whispered, his gun brushing against Crane's forehead. Crane lifted his hand, but before he could spray the Joker, his hand was grabbed and he was vaulted forward, his hand covering his driver's mouth as the poison filled his driver's lungs. A chilling scream filled the car and the joker grinned. 

"Do we have a deal, Ichabod?" He droned as if this were boring work. As if he'd seen worse. Crane felt his heart throb in his ears as those dark eyes pinned him down. 

"Uh—" he murmured. The joker pulled the hammer down on his gun as the car swerved back and forth on the road. 

"_Glad_ to be doing business with you, sleepy hollow," he snarled, petting Crane's hair back and giving him a sick, shrill laughter that chilled him to the bone. What was wrong with this man? Crane nodded slowly. 

"Of course...I'll get you the clean slate just...pull over, PULL OVER GOD DAMNIT!" Crane snarled. The Joker leaned back and laughed cruely as the car shot over the curb and crashed into a building. They lurched forward, but as Crane looked back up, the Joker had left. 

He looked down to see the Joker card. He picked it up and clenched his jaw. He turned it over to see—

_Isn't this world a joke? _

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please do give it some feedback, we authors live for that shit. Thank you for reading!


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